


post-concussion hurt/comfort

by sevenfists



Series: Sid/Geno Tumblr ficlets [17]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-13
Updated: 2018-11-13
Packaged: 2019-08-23 08:25:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16615418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenfists/pseuds/sevenfists
Summary: Dr. Vyas sighed and clicked his pen a few times and said, “I’m afraid you have a concussion.”“Okay,” Zhenya said, numb. Would he be out for so long, like Sid had been? Would this be the end of his career? He could only think of those long dark months of Sid’s recovery, thrilling at every sign of progress and then despairing at every setback. He didn’t want that to be him. He healed faster than a living person, but concussions weren’t linear. There was no saying what might happen.





	post-concussion hurt/comfort

**Author's Note:**

> Set during Geno's concussion in 2013. I wrote this as a prompt ficlet combining prompts for post-injury h/c, vampires, and amnesia.

“Geno. Can you hear me?”

Zhenya groaned and turned his head to the side. Someone was kneeling beside him on the ice. Stew, he realized after a moment. He recognized the Gatorade towel, and Stew’s voice.

“What hurts?” Stew asked.

“Head,” Zhenya said. He didn’t know what had happened, but he felt terrible. His head throbbed, and as he tentatively pushed up onto his hands and knees, it began to spin. From the hush of the crowd, he could tell that whatever had happened to him had looked bad.

“Let’s get you out of here,” Stew said. “Can you stand?”

“I think,” Zhenya said, and he could, and he could skate, too. The fans clapped as he made his way toward the tunnel. Off to the side, he could see his teammates tapping their sticks against the boards. 

Dr. Vyas met him at the mouth of the tunnel and took him back to the exam room. Zhenya’s head was aching, and he couldn’t remember what day of the week it was or anything about the hit that had felled him, and he wasn’t at all surprised when Dr. Vyas sighed and clicked his pen a few times and said, “I’m afraid you have a concussion.”

“Okay,” Zhenya said, numb. Would he be out for so long, like Sid had been? Would this be the end of his career? He could only think of those long dark months of Sid’s recovery, thrilling at every sign of progress and then despairing at every setback. He didn’t want that to be him. He healed faster than a living person, but concussions weren’t linear. There was no saying what might happen.

He wasn’t allowed to drive himself home. “Someone will take you,” Dr. Vyas said, and that someone turned out to be Sid, still lingering in the players’ lounge in his base layers, when usually he would be in the showers or on his way home by now. He was watching TV on the couch, and he looked over when Zhenya came in and some of the tension in his expression eased. Zhenya knew the worry for a teammate, and the relief when he was on his feet and it maybe wasn’t as bad as you had feared.

“Vyas said you take me,” Zhenya said.

Sid shrugged. “I live close.” He gave Zhenya a once-over. “You wanna shower first?”

“No,” Zhenya said. He was crusted in sweat from the game, but he wanted to be home, where he could lie in his tub until he wrinkled. He might sleep in his coffin tonight. He didn’t usually, but it was comforting when he was injured: the darkest, safest place.

He rested his head against the window on the drive home and kept his eyes closed. He could picture his brain gently sloshing around in his skull, like a grape in a glass of sangria. He should have eaten something at the arena, but he didn’t like the brand of synthetic blood they stocked, and they couldn’t order the stuff he liked because of something about an endorsement deal that he had never fully understood. He was hungry, but also a little nauseated. He wanted to be asleep already.

“You need me to come in?” Sid asked, when he pulled into Zhenya’s driveway.

“No,” Zhenya said, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to open his eyes or move.

Sid was quiet for a few moments, probably waiting for Zhenya to get the fuck out of his car so he could go home. Then he said, “Vyas told me you’re, uh. Having trouble remembering some stuff.”

“It’s fine,” Zhenya said, because he didn’t want to get into the details, or make Sid worry. He dragged his eyes open and sat up. “Thanks for ride.”

“Let me at least come in and make you something to eat,” Sid said. “It’ll make me feel better.”

He knew just how to push Zhenya’s buttons, and anyway Zhenya’s head hurt too much for him to argue. He got out of the car, and heard the driver’s side door open a moment later.

Taking his shoes off in the foyer, he realized with a flood of disorientation that he didn’t know where his kitchen was. Should he turn left or right? But Sid seemed to know where to go; he confidently went left, and Zhenya followed him, grateful that he wouldn’t have to reveal his confusion.

“Have a seat,” Sid said, pointing at the table, and Zhenya sank into a chair and cradled his head in his hands. His headache was getting worse, a sharp throb that spiked every time he moved. He needed to lie down.

He heard the tap cut on, and the noises of Sid washing his hands. The fridge opened and closed. “It’s not there,” Zhenya said, because that wasn’t where he stashed his synthetic. There was nothing in the fridge but a few snacks for his human guests.

“I know,” Sid said. He came over to the table with a bottle of Gatorade and started rolling up his sleeve. Zhenya stared without meaning to. Sid’s forearm was thick and pale and his veins were blue beneath the skin, running from his wrist up toward his elbow. He sat in the chair next to Zhenya and extended his arm. “Come on.”

“No,” Zhenya said sharply. He didn’t drink from anyone he wasn’t fucking, and he and Sid definitely weren’t fucking.

“You’ll heal faster,” Sid said. “Just take a little bit. I’ll make you some synthetic, too.”

“We don’t do,” Zhenya said, but he was suddenly uncertain, because Sid looked so calm, and maybe Zhenya had forgotten. 

“You’ve fed from me before, when you’re injured,” Sid said. “It’s no big deal. Helps you heal faster, eh?”

Zhenya eyed him, waiting for him to crack. Sid was great at dissembling, but terrible at outright lying. But Sid kept smiling at him, friendly and unfazed, and Zhenya was hungry; Zhenya wanted to bite him. His head hurt. Maybe they had done this. Sid knew what concussions were like; he wanted to help out. It was okay for Zhenya to drink from him.

“Maybe synthetic first,” Zhenya said. He didn’t want to take more from Sid than a few mouthfuls, and he didn’t trust himself right now.

Sid heated the synthetic in Zhenya’s electric kettle and brought it to him in a mug. He had to open a few cabinet doors before he found the mugs, which reassured Zhenya that they weren’t in fact screwing. He was certain he would have remembered that.

“Might be a little too hot,” Sid said, and it was, but Zhenya didn’t care. With each sip, his headache ebbed slightly, and his fog of confusion eased. When the mug was empty, he didn’t feel completely better, but he’d call it a good 25%.

“Maybe don’t need to drink,” he said. He could crawl into the bathtub and then into his coffin. He would probably feel much better in the morning.

Sid’s expression pinched. “Listen, I know you get off on being stubborn, but maybe just this once you could let me help you.”

“Not stubborn,” Zhenya muttered. Sid was one to talk. But he couldn’t work himself too deep into a sulk with Sid shifting closer and offering his arm. Zhenya reached out to feel the pulse in the crook of Sid’s elbow: too fast, and it could have been from nerves or excitement or both. Zhenya was afraid to ask.

He rubbed his thumb over the crease of Sid’s elbow, warming the skin and drawing the blood to the surface. His fangs slid out, the familiar bright pain as they pierced the gums. Sid’s heartbeat started going even faster, and Zhenya glanced at his face, concerned even through his hunger and pain.

Sid gave him a reassuring smile. “Sorry. I’m fine. Always a little strange to see you like this, is all.”

Zhenya could imagine. Everyone knew what he was, but he didn’t advertise it. “We stop,” he said, although now that it was a real possibility, and Sid was sitting there so sweetly with his arm bared, he desperately wanted to drink.

“No, it’s fine,” Sid said. “You should do it.”

Zhenya bent his head to touch his lips to Sid’s skin. He inhaled. There was Sid’s soap, and there, deeper, was Sid’s blood. Zhenya’s sense of smell wasn’t very good, as these things went, but this close there was no mistaking it. Carefully, as gently as he could, he opened his mouth and bit.

Sid drew in a sharp breath through his nose but didn’t move. Zhenya retracted his fangs and let his mouth fill with blood, and heard himself moan with pleasure as it flooded over his tongue. This was why he mostly drank synthetic: because the real thing was so much better, both the taste of it and the experience, feeling someone’s heartbeat under his tongue, the trust, the warmth, the cautious hand Sid rested on his head, holding him in place. If he couldn’t have it all the time, it was better not to have it at all.

He swallowed his mouthful and sucked gently to draw more. Already he could feel Sid’s blood working through him, healing him. It was good that they had done this before, that Sid felt comfortable enough to offer. He wondered when. Maybe during his knee injury, although he couldn’t imagine he would have drunk from Sid while Sid was still concussed.

He took a third mouthful, and then a fourth, and then he pressed his tongue to the tiny puncture wounds until his saliva closed them. When he sat up, Sid was flushed and open-mouthed, painfully appealing, and Zhenya dragged his gaze away. Most people enjoyed being fed from, but Zhenya shouldn’t make this more than it was. 

“Thanks, Sid,” he said, and wiped at the corners of his mouth. “I feel little better.”

Sid cleared his throat. “Okay. Well. That’s good.” He rolled down his sleeve. “So, I’ll—go now, I guess.”

He was hard in his sweats when he stood up. Zhenya looked for one single second and then looked away.

“I’ll text you tomorrow,” Sid said, and Zhenya nodded and said, “Okay, yes,” and hauled himself upstairs for a bath and sleep.

\+ + +

Zhenya woke in a panic, disoriented in the utter pitch blackness. He tried to turn over to grab his phone and couldn’t, and remembered then that he had slept in his coffin. Right: the concussion.

He went downstairs to warm up some breakfast. He had felt a little better the night before, but his head ached and spun as he waited for the kettle to heat. He still didn’t remember the hit, or drinking from Sid. What else had he forgotten?

His phone was full of text messages from the team and from friends who had seen the hit on TV, all of which he ignored because reading them made his head hurt more. Vyas and Bylsma had left voicemail, which Zhenya didn’t bother listening to. He called Dr. Vyas and reported his symptoms: confusion, headache. “I think it’s better, though,” he said. “I sleep more, eat lots today, so maybe I play tomorrow.”

“We’ll see,” Dr. Vyas said, which meant there wasn’t a chance in hell.

Zhenya wanted to sleep until his eyeballs didn’t feel like they were being jabbed with ice picks from the inside. He drew all the curtains in the den and passed out on the couch, and had an unsettling dream about someone coming into his house and watching him sleep. He nearly fell off the couch in terror when he woke to the sound of the front door opening.

“Geno?” he heard someone call. “You home?” 

It sounded like Sid. Okay: not a home invader. Zhenya pressed one hand to his chest, where his heart was, although it hadn’t made a single beat in decades. 

“In here,” he called out.

Sid appeared in the doorway, shoeless but wearing his hat and coat. He frowned at Zhenya. “How are you feeling? None of the guys have heard from you, so I thought I’d swing by.”

“I’m sleep,” Zhenya said. He slumped down on the couch and rubbed at his eyes. “Sorry. Look at phone is too hard.”

Sid’s face softened. “Yeah. I know how that is.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “How’s the head?”

Zhenya considered lying, but this was Sid, who had more experience with concussions than anyone else Zhenya knew. “Still hurt. And I don’t remember hit.” He shrugged. “Vyas say I can’t play tomorrow.”

“Yeah, well, no kidding,” Sid said. “I was hoping, uh.” He glanced away and licked his lips. “It didn’t help you to feed from me yesterday?”

He hadn’t taken enough, probably. But he wouldn’t ask Sid to do it again. “It’s fine. Probably I’m better soon.”

“Listen, Geno, uh.” Sid unzipped his coat and came over to join Zhenya on the couch. “I kind of—lied to you. Yesterday.”

Zhenya squinted at him. Sid had never successfully lied to him that Zhenya knew of.

Sid exhaled. “You haven’t ever, uh. Fed from me. Before.”

“But you say,” Zhenya said dumbly.

“I knew you wouldn’t otherwise,” Sid said. “So. Yeah.”

“You trick me,” Zhenya said. He knew he should be outraged, but anger seemed like too much effort. 

“Yeah,” Sid said. “I did. Look, I’m sorry. But I know how you are, and I thought it would help.” He toyed with the zipper on his coat, avoiding Zhenya’s gaze. “And I wanted to.”

Zhenya didn’t know what to make of any of this. He was still hung up on Sid successfully lying to him. Well, he was concussed; he shouldn’t be too hard on himself. 

“Are you mad at me?” Sid asked, with a furtive sideways glance.

“I don’t know,” Zhenya said. What harm had Sid done? It was awkward to drink from friends because of the side effects, and that was the major reason Zhenya avoided it. “It’s shitty you lie. Make me think I can’t remember.”

“I—yeah,” Sid said. He ducked his head. “I didn’t think it through. But this morning it occurred to me that you would probably be wondering what else you had forgotten, so. I came over to tell you.” He glanced at Zhenya again. “I don’t think you’ve forgotten huge chunks of your life or anything like that.”

“Okay,” Zhenya said. He had been worrying, a little. “I still don’t remember hit.”

“It might come back to you,” Sid said. He dragged his zipper partway up and back down. “Maybe you need to drink more. If you want to do it again, I mean—I’m game. If you think it might help.”

“You want,” Zhenya said, because even in his fog he hadn’t missed that.

Sid flushed a sweet pink that slowly deepened into red. He took off his hat, ran his hand through his hair, and put his hat back on. “Look, I just—the lockout was pretty long. I had a lot of time to think. I missed you a lot, more than anyone else, and—I mean, you can say no. We can just forget it.”

Zhenya didn’t know what he was rambling about, but there was no mistaking that blush. “You like when I bite you,” he said.

“It was pretty okay,” Sid said, starting to smile now.

Zhenya knew there were a million reasons why they shouldn’t. He’d thought about those reasons many times over the years, talking himself out of saying something, of putting his hand on the back of Sid’s neck at a bar and waiting for him to catch on. But Sid was pink and alive and smiling at him, and Zhenya was too old to be cautious in the face of a clear invitation. What was the point? If things went to shit, you waited a decade until everyone forgot. Zhenya hadn’t yet encountered a bad situation he couldn’t outlive.

A warm glow started in his belly, offsetting the ache in his head. He patted his thigh. “Come here.”

He thought for a moment that Sid might not do it. But then Sid took a breath and wriggled out of his coat, and shifted around on the couch until he was straddling Zhenya’s lap. His arms looped around Zhenya’s neck. “Like this?”

“Yes,” Zhenya said, and tugged at Sid’s hips until he sat down, tucked right against Zhenya’s body, chest to chest. Zhenya buried his face in Sid’s neck and kissed his throat a few times, right where he planned to bite. 

“Can I kiss you?” Sid asked.

Zhenya pulled back to look at him. Sid didn’t look embarrassed now, only earnest, like there was genuinely nothing in the world that he wanted more than to kiss Zhenya.

“Okay,” Zhenya said. He sucked on his teeth to make sure his fangs weren’t getting any ideas about popping out. He rested his head on the back of the couch and smiled up at Sid. “Kiss me.”

Sid’s hands cupped his head. He stroked his thumbs over Zhenya’s temples. The look on his face was gentle and joyful as he bent to press his mouth to Zhenya’s. The kiss was as sweet as blood.


End file.
